


the level knife

by relationshipcrimes



Series: shuake week 2019 [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Imagined eye trauma, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 08:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: Akechi gets his first haircut in too long because haircuts make him nervous. It doesn't help that the person cutting it is Akira.





	the level knife

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Shuake Week 2019, Day 1: Firsts/Lasts.

Goro’s hair’s getting so long that he’s resorted to making self-conscious jokes on TV about it _and_ in Leblanc, which gets him mild canned laughter from audiences and a whole lot of thirst tweets about ponytails under his hashtag. When Goro’s bangs fall in his eyes for the fifth time, Kurusu just gives him the same mild look that always makes Goro feel like he has to either explain himself, justify his presence in Leblanc and Kurusu's home, or just fill up the silence. “I don’t really have the time,” Goro says quickly. “Between interviews, classes, and work...”

Kurusu watches Goro explain himself, then watches the coffee percolate with the same measured gaze, as if waiting for them both to spin themselves out of their own accord. Goro’s doing something wrong. Unclear what it is, but he’s doing it wrong. Also, the silence is going on too long. “Well, I shouldn’t complain. It’s important to keep up appearances, after all, and I should make the effort,” says Goro.

The coffee puffs; the cat on the counter yawns. Kurusu’s and the cat’s expression of detached interest could be identical. Not even a response. Not even his _attention_—okay, Goro needs to leave _right_ now.

He closes his textbook. His coffee isn’t even cold, so he doesn’t try and drain it. “I suppose I should get going. Thank you for the coffee.”

Kurusu looks at him sidelong. “Leaving early?”

Goro doesn’t like that Akira knows how long he usually stays at Leblanc. That’s not any of his business if Kurusu doesn’t mean to take any genuine interest. “Now that it’s come to my attention,” he gestures to Leblanc’s TV, still on a commercial run between Goro’s own interview about his own prissy hair, “it occurs to me that I should probably get these bangs out of my eyes, at the very least. There should still be a hair salon open around here, and I should get going if I’m going to commit another two hours just to a haircut.”

“Two _hours_?”

“The time commitment adds up fast. Between the public transportation, the waiting, the washing, the cutting, the drying...” The feel of someone’s hands on his scalp, around his neck, slick and slimy and viscous; the high drone of the buzzer; the _snick _of scissor blades; dozens of people’s voices, talking about him and her; the fucking _mirrors_... Goro tries not to shudder. He keeps smiling.

“Hm,” says Kurusu, and nothing else.

Goro resists the urge to pick at his own nails. His hands are in gloves anyway. He drums his fingers on the countertop once then makes himself stop that too. “It can also be a bit of a media trial, going to a hair salon. Ever since the interviews started, people ask me for autographs at the worst times, and there’s always the possibility of someone taking a picture...”

Kurusu’s still looking at him sidelong. Now Goro’s just complaining about his own fame. Cool. Way to make himself look like a douche.

“If it’s just your bangs, you could do it yourself,” says Kurusu.

Goro hesitates. Calculates. Idols admit to endearing weaknesses sometimes, right? Goro has a reputation of being skilled at everything, but he _has_ seen idols talk about mundane things they’re bad at, something small and cute, and it makes them more loved among their fans, right? “I’m… not very good at trimming my own bangs,” he says, which is true, and reflexively follows up with a sunny smile to apologize for his imperfection. “Considering how frequently my appearance is under scrutiny, I’d rather not take the chance and mess it up.”

Kurusu looks at the coffee, measuring; back at Goro, measuring. _Fuck_, Goro’s doing something wrong again—

“I can cut hair,” he says.

“—You can?”

“Yeah. I have a kit with professional scissors and everything. I cut my boss’s daughter’s bangs all the time.”

“You surprise me yet again. A man of many talents,” says Goro pleasantly, back-tracking through excuses he just made and wondering which ones he can contradict so he can get the _fuck_ out of here while simultaneously forward-tracking from _boss’s daughter_ to _Sojiro Sakura’s ward_ to _Futaba Sakura_ to _Futaba Isshiki_. “You... must be very good if your friends are asking you to style their hair.”

“I got tired of going to the haircutter every week myself. She doesn’t like going to the haircutter either,” Kurusu says. “It takes maybe ten minutes to trim your bangs.”

Shit. Every conversation with Kurusu has to be a chessmatch and a half, isn’t it? For all his overanalyzing, Kurusu’s outmaneuvered him again, because that’s about to become an offer to cut his hair.

Now Goro really needs to leave.

The TV switches back to Goro’s interview and he knows exactly which interview it is before it starts. He cannot fucking _believe_ the TV is talking about Goro’s hair too. The cat yawns again, stretches, rolls over. “If you want,” Kurusu adds, before Goro can defuse his own bad play.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” says Goro’s mouth. Delay, delay. What’s a good excuse?

“No bother. And it sounds like it’d be a real pain to go to a hair salon and have people take pictures of you like that.”

Goro can’t stop his own smile from sliding into a mild grimace. Kurusu’s expression changes not at all, but still manages to look amused.

“If you want,” he says again. “Cafe’s pretty empty.”

“Right now?” Goro says in disbelief.

“Why not," says Kurusu. “It’s easy and takes ten minutes.”

Goro hesitates. Does Kurusu offer this to every stranger in Leblanc? Are they strangers? Can they be strangers if they see each other multiple times a week for Kurusu to make him a cup of coffee and Goro to talk about himself and work himself into a nervous fit? Kurusu cuts his hair for his friends—does that mean they’re _friends_? Kurusu _has_ to know why Goro is here, right—it's for surveillance, because Kurusu’s so obviously involved with the Phantom Thieves—what does Kurusu care about Goro’s celebrity woes? What kind of overly-familiar gesture is this? Is this how everyone makes friends? Aren’t they supposed to go out for a movie or something mundane first before they skip straight to Kurusu touching his head with knives? What was Goro expecting from getting Kurusu’s attention? What did he _think_ was going to happen—?

“Or not. I thought I’d offer. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” says Kurusu, turning back to the coffee.

"—Wait,” says Goro. He can’t get the image of some fangirl taking a picture of him with his hair in a drowned rat’s nest through some city window and posting it to her Instagram and then having to deal with ten different listicles about his face and then fucking Shido demanding to know why Goro can’t control his own public reputation. He can’t stop thinking about Kurusu waiting for the coffee to percolate, looking at Goro the same way. “Are you _sure_ you know what you’re doing?”

“It’s not hard. I won't mess up your pretty hair, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That and other things—wait, _pretty_? “Not that I’m doubting your skills,” says Goro quickly, “it’s just rather important to keep up my appearance, in case anyone asks...” (Pretty?) Wasn’t he supposed to be making an excuse to get out of this? (_Pretty_?)

“I know what I’m doing,” says Kurusu like a statement. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Kurusu knows what he’s doing, full stop. Who _has_ that kind of confidence? Is Kurusu real? Or was he just made specifically to be as flawless as Goro wishes he could be? When Goro takes too long to respond, Kurusu pulls off his apron like Goro’s already said yes. “Come on,” says Kurusu, and just leaves the coffee he was making to sit and walks right into Leblanc’s bathroom.

“Are you _serious_?” Goro asks.

“Why not,” says Kurusu again from the bathroom, like the dangerous, law-breaking individual he is. He pops his head back out and holds up a black bag presumably full of hair-cutting supplies.

Goro glances quickly at the cat on the counter, which is ignoring him entirely. Kurusu’s staring at him expectantly, looking at him and no one else.

Shit.

_Shit_.

This is such a bad idea.

Kurusu touching his _face_.

With _knives_.

This is _such _a bad idea.

Goro gets up and goes in after him.

Behind him, the TV is still playing his own interview: the Goro on the TV is talking about whether or not his hair color is natural (obviously not), what hair dye he prefers. See, people ask Goro about why he keeps his hair so long _all_ the time. He talks a bit about fashion trends, about what it’s like to dye his hair, admits to treating it chemically (who doesn’t in Tokyo?). He shells out long-winded and detailed responses that don’t actually answer the question.

The truth is that Goro hates getting his hair cut. _Hates_ it. He specifically has long hair because he likes being able to go months between a haircut; he gets it cut to just below his chin like a girl, and then waits until it’s almost down to his collarbones. In his opinion, there’s nothing wrong with how much he hates getting his hair cut, because who _wouldn’t _hate being confined to a chair while a stranger holds knives over his head? He hates sitting in that chair for hours, staring at himself in the mirror, staring at his hairdresser staring at him. He hates how the whole exercise just reminds him about all the beauty standards he has to replicate every single day lest some tabloid lurker or worse, some preteen catch him with his roots showing. He hates _especially _how the hairdresser always seems to cut his hair wrong, like it’s never quite good enough, even while everyone fawns over his nice skin and symmetrical face and good hair texture.

Let alone letting someone see him with his hair in foils and covered in dye like a soggy rat—yeah, sorry, he’d rather die. He dyes his own hair in his shower, stripped to his underwear, skimming blindly through social media feeds of his followers retweeting his face to the scent of bleach destroying the keratin in his hair. Coloring hair is easier because it’s indiscriminate chemical destruction. Cutting your bangs? That’s surgery.

Leblanc’s bathroom is dim. There isn’t even a fluorescent light, just an ancient orange lightbulb, which is fine with Goro because the buzz of fluorescent lights is one of his least favorite things about any location, but especially hair salons. Kurusu turns on his phone flashlight and puts it on the sink and unpacks his gear with the precision of someone unpacking riot gear, and then turns the lock on the bathroom with a steady _click_. “So no one will see,” he says.

Holy shit this was a bad idea.

“People’ll get the wrong idea at this rate,” Goro says in what he hopes is a mild voice. Kurusu pulls out the scissors, holds Goro’s gaze, and smirks. Kurusu doesn’t disagree.

_Holy shit_ this was a bad idea.

Goro glances at the mirror: he is _not_ going to survive having to stare at himself while Kurusu cuts his hair, or Kurusu shanking him in Leblanc’s bathroom, or Kurusu getting any closer to—_never mind_, never mind. “Look over here,” says Kurusu, positioning himself by the sink, so that Goro has to face away from the mirror.

“Won’t the hair fall on the floor...?”

“The boss’ll make me sweep this place later anyway,” says Kurusu as he wets the scissors. Which are sharp. Very sharp. Kurusu holds them effortlessly, like he’s used to holding knives—kitchen knives, maybe, or some other types of knives? Kurusu really does know what he’s doing with them. This is the opposite of reassuring. Kurusu flips them around one-handed to point blade down (holy shit) and then says “Sorry. Excuse me,” in that way he does when he’s going to do whatever it is anyway, and then like it’s nothing at all, he tucks Goro’s hair behind his ears (holy _shit_), dragging one fingernail down Goro’s scalp on his left side to find the part between his bangs and his hair (_fuck_), and then the same on the other side (Goro is going to _die_ in this bathroom one way or another).

“Hm. How long ago was your last haircut?” Kurusu says.

Goro swallows and prays Kurusu can’t see his throat working. “This is the first in a while, I’m afraid.” Definitely the first he’s ever let an amateur at his hair in a dimly-lit café bathroom, that’s for sure. “Are you _sure_ you know what you’re doing?” Goro asks, like his only concern is Kurusu messing up his pretty (_pretty?_) hair.

“I’m sure. But you might want to close your eyes,” says Kurusu. Yeah, what if Kurusu shut the fuck up about Goro _closing his eyes_ when Kurusu’s face is less than a foot from Goro’s while he’s holding a pair of knives.

“I’ll be fine,” says Goro politely.

“You’ll get hair in your eyes.”

“I’ll be fine,” says Goro’s voice again. He still sounds like he’s functioning, thank god.

“Suit yourself.” Kurusu takes Goro’s bangs in his fingers. He has that look on his face, like he’s watching the coffee percolate, not to measure worth but to see the thing for what it is. Goro can’t feel his hands and he realizes he’s clenched them so tight around the porcelain sink that his fingers have gone numb. Kurusu hesitates, like he wants to say something about Goro clutching the sink like he’s waiting to be executed, and Goro can’t stop himself from glaring at him for half a second as if to say: _Don't you _fucking _dare_. Goro really will lose it if Kurusu of all people acknowledges them as unequal after all.

Kurusu smiles with his eyes only. He raises the scissors and, at the last second, Goro closes his eyes.

There’s a _snip_, the scissors sliding through hair, so loud in Goro’s ears that it could be the sound of a blade slipping through tendon, then Kurusu just keeps going all the way across the bangs towards the left, and the pain never comes. There’s no blood. Hair’s falling on Goro’s face instead. He blinks his eyes back open. He’s trying _very_ hard not to look at his bangs because he’d look like an idiot staring up at something he can barely see, but the only other thing is Kurusu’s face right in front of him, focus thick and steady. His eyes track the straightness of Goro’s bangs from over the rim of his glasses, and without the lens in the way, without Kurusu looking back at him, Goro stares as much as he likes at the one eye peering out from behind Kurusu’s own hair. Kurusu's iris is so dark that the pupil vanishes, just one large absence behind the lashes.

Kurusu measures again, cuts a bit more. Measures again. Drops his bangs and puts a hand on Goro’s head and ruffles his hair. Goro’s back snaps up straight.

“Sorry,” says Kurusu, with a curve to his mouth that says he’s very unsorry, actually. “I’m checking to see if I missed any strands. Like this one—” And he leans in with the scissors coming _right at Goro’s eye_ and the blades miss his eye completely as Kurusu rests the cool metal against Goro’s forehead and snips away a stray hair. The blades go back down. Kurusu ruffles his hair again.

Goro may not have taken a breath in almost five minutes, now. God, he hopes his face isn’t red.

Kurusu looks it over, then nods. “The layers for the rest of your hair should probably be done by a pro. The bangs should be good for a bit. Here.” He steps out of Goro’s personal space (thank _god_), wets a paper towel, and hands it to Goro. “You have hair all over your nose.”

“Thank you,” says Goro’s last remaining brain cell. “That was rather fast.”

“I told you. It’s only hard when you don’t have someone else to cut your hair.” Kurusu wipes down his scissors with the towel with the same care someone would clean a beloved murder weapon.

When Goro looks back in the mirror, his bangs _are_ much better, sitting just at the eyebrows. (Jesus, Kurusu hadn’t even asked what length. Goro hadn’t even thought to tell him.) He looks younger, somehow. He looks less like he’s shooting for stylishly-overgrown and more stylishly-neat-but-tousled. He isn’t sure whether he looks more or less like himself. Kurusu repacks his scissors and shoves them under the bathroom sink in the meantime. “You really do know what you’re doing,” Goro says. His voice holds steady, thank god.

“Surprised?” Kurusu asks. His smile is lazy to the point of smugness. Him and his cat are a hell of a pair.

“You always surprise me,” says Goro. “It looks much better. Thank you, really.”

Kurusu’s smile widens further. Out of all the people Goro tries to keep pleased in order to avoid danger, Kurusu is the only person for whom Goro feels _less_ safe the more pleased Kurusu is. “I try. Come again if you need a trim,” says Kurusu, and unlocks the bathroom door and pushes it open. “Any time.”

“You’re very kind,” says Goro. He swears on the spot that this is the last time he ever lets Kurusu near him again, with or without a pair of blades.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter [@r_crimes](https://twitter.com/r_crimes)  
tumblr [@akechicrimes](http://akechicrimes.tumblr.com)


End file.
